


wake

by benjidunn



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Infidelity, Insomnia, Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Smut, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benjidunn/pseuds/benjidunn
Summary: It's been nearly two whole years since Will last saw Lieutenant Blake, but he receives a letter from him, anyway.
Relationships: Joseph Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 15
Kudos: 128





	1. première

**_première._ **

There wasn’t ever a moment in Will’s mind where he expected that the letter he sent to Mrs. Blake would get a response, and yet the envelope addressed to him now has her address on it. He sits and stares at it, too numb to flick his letter opener through it and see what’s inside, because he has no idea what she might want to say nearly two whole years later, and he’s not entirely sure if he wants to know. Not when the memory of Blake is only starting to feel more like a dull thud in time with his heartbeat as opposed to the piercing hurt that he was accustomed to for so long.

“Will?” his wife calls from the kitchen. “Everything alright?”

He blinks, clears his throat, responds, “Yes,” and slits the envelope open. Then he unfolds the letter.

_Dear Lance Corporal Schofield,_

_Forgive me for writing to you as it’s been some time since we last talked, but I came across your letter recently and couldn’t stop thinking about the effect it had on my mother. Your words about Tom meant a lot to her, so much so that she never threw the letter out. At first I found it surprising; she isn’t the type to cling onto cheap things for sentimental value. But your letter is much more than that. It reopened a wound I thought had mostly healed when I read it again._

_I know it must seem strange that I choose to reach out to you after so much time, but your letter touched me in a way that could only be resolved if I could talk to you again. In fact, it left enough of an impact that I went through some troubles to find your address, so I hope this has reached you safely._

_Please write back if you feel so inclined. I wish I could say I’m doing this for my mother’s sake, but I find myself missing him more and more. I would be very happy to hear more about your relationship with my brother and how you’ve been since the war._

_Joe Blake_

His eyes run over the words, over and over and over, and they sit with him so heavily that his lungs compress under their weight.

“Will, darling?”

His wife rounds the corner. She stops and stares at the letter in his hands.

“Who’s that from?”

“Uh,” Will says, and then he opens the drawer and shoves it inside. “Nobody important.”

\---

Blake is in a field. He’s sleeping, with his helmet tipped over his face to keep the sun out of his eyes. Only his lips and chin are visible, so soft and sweet and young that Will’s heart aches in his chest.

“Blake,” he says softly.

He doesn’t move.

“Blake,” Will repeats. This time, he nudges him. “We have to go.”

But there’s something wrong. He’s cold, stiff. His skin is gray.

“Blake,” he urges, but when he touches him again, he’s nothing more than bones. He leaps backwards, gasps for air, and then finds himself in his bed as his wife fights to grab his arms and still him.

“It’s alright,” she soothes. “You’re okay.”

Will gasps, strains his eyes to see her in the dark. “He--”

“It’s me,” she continues. “Just a bad dream.”

He blinks, relaxes his shoulder. “But he’s--”

“You’re safe,” she says, and he hangs his head and cries.

\---

“Who was that letter from?” his wife asks as they lie together in bed.

“Which letter?” he mumbles.

“The one from last week.”

“Nobody you know.”

“Then who?”

“Just someone from the war.”

“Oh.” She stops. “What does he want?”

“Just to talk.”

“Are you going to talk to him?”

Will stays quiet.

“Was he a soldier, too?”

“Yes.”

“I think you should talk to him,” she says.

He rolls over.

\---

The letter’s slightly crumpled when Will pulls it out again. He can hear his daughters singing as their mother bathes them, but their joviality does little to punctuate the way Joe’s words cloud his mind. And he reads it again, and again, and again, until he finds the motivation to open the drawer, pull out a pen, and grab a piece of stationery. Then he hesitates for a long moment.

_Dear Joseph,_

He scratches through it and grabs another piece.

_Dear Lieutenant Blake,_

It’s been so long since he’s written that name.

\---

_Dear Will,_

_It’s lovely to hear from you again. I regret that I didn’t get to know you very well at all, but there wasn’t much of an option, given the brevity of our acquaintance. Despite it, I’ve often wondered what happened to you after we met, so perhaps we can get to know each other better now._

_I hope my letter didn’t stir up any unpleasant memories nor that my informality now comes off as offensive. But I do not want you to feel obligated to treat me as a superior. Many men experienced the war, but it is you and I that share the memory of Tom. As a result, I would enjoy talking with you as a friend, rather than as soldiers._

_I do not know how you feel discussing these matters, so it is ultimately your decision to reject my ideas or not; however, I’ve found there’s something cathartic thus far about writing to you._

_Sincerely,_

_Joe Blake_

\---

_Dear Joe,_

_The truth of the matter is that it’s very hard to think of the war, but that must be the same for everyone. The other, often unpleasant truth is that I often think of both you and your brother even if I’d rather move on. But if he’s on both of our minds after this long, there’s no sense in not talking about him. Maybe it will prove to be a healing experience for the two of us, after all._

Will stops. He doesn’t want to tell Joe about the nightmares. He doesn’t want to tell him about those nights he spends awake, imagining that Tom is just napping on that field outside of Écoust, pretending like his body would still be there if he ever went back to find him. But he also doesn’t have anything else to say, not when his thoughts swirl around the fact Tom never got to harvest another orchard of cherries, not when the guilt reverberates deep in his chest when he thinks about leaving him behind.

He inhales sharply, blinks a few times, and continues.

_I’ll let you decide where to begin in our conversation, since you took the initiative to write to me._

He’s not strong enough.


	2. deuxième

**_deuxième._ **

He never gets used to the nightmares. The insomnia is different, though. When it comes, he welcomes it, just because it’s one less night spent worrying if Blake would appear in his dreams again among the countless other corpses and injured men moaning for a salvation that may never arrive.

It does no good to think about those dreams, but he finds he can hardly focus on anything else. Otherwise, he checks on his daughters and finds them both oblivious to the world, and debates whether he wants to run his fingers through the waves of her hair that cascade over her shoulder blades. And then he has nothing to do but watch the moon sink below the horizon and the next day to start.

But tonight, it’s different. His mind drifts to the letter from Joseph sitting on his desk, once, twice, three times, until he finds the energy to slide out from his bed and cross the floor. The soft light from the moon filtering in through the window just illuminates the edge of it, but his eyes are adjusted enough to catch what words Joe had written.

_\--I hadn’t the faintest idea that you might be a father, but it’s a terribly nice thing to imagine. My mother has expected the same from me by this point, but I’m afraid that I’ve only let her down in both that aspect and the other prospect of finding a wife. I suspect that she thinks I’m writing love letters to someone given the frequency of your letters, and I haven’t the heart to tell her otherwise. For what it is worth, however, your correspondence gives me much joy, especially with the anniversary of Tom’s--_

Will jumps to the back page.

_Yours,_

_Joe Blake_

Joe Blake, he reads. He skims his thumb across his signature. Joe Blake. He holds the letter to his chest. Joe Blake.

\---

_Dear Joe,_

_A number of weeks ago, you asked me if the war had disturbed my sleep at all. I wasn’t entirely honest with how frequently those memories interfere with my rest. I suppose I didn’t want to be too familiar too quickly, but you’ve been candid enough with me that it seems only fair that I show the same vulnerability._

_Your brother always amazed me with how easily he slept. I suspect you might already know what I mean by this, given that you knew him much longer than I did. There was one night, right after I joined the 8th, that the front line was suddenly busy, but he stayed asleep until I kicked him awake. That description sounds much more violent than the reality, of course, but I was awed by how deep of a sleeper he was. Part of me envied him, because even then, I’d fall victim to insomnia every now and then. Then again, a good night’s sleep was nothing more than a fantasy back then, wasn’t it? It seems strange that it’s only gotten harder to achieve even months after the war ended._

_Was Tom like this growing up? As ridiculous as it felt to have to shake him awake in the moment, I find it a bit endearing now. It’s those little things you miss most after someone’s gone, or so I’ve found._

_Yours,_

_Will Schofield_

\---

“Daddy?”

Will wrinkles his nose and clenches his eyelids tighter.

“Da-ddy.”

He peeks one eye open. “Yes, love?” he mutters.

“You fell asleep.”

He pauses, and then shifts in his chair. “So I did.”

“Sitting in front of the fire makes me sleepy, too.”

He forces his eyes open wider, vision still bleary from his unexpected nap as he gazes around. It’s only his oldest daughter and him in the room.

“Did you not sleep last night?” she asks.

“I did.”

“Mama says you don’t sleep very well.”

He meets his daughter’s gaze. Even with her mother’s dark hair, she has his blue eyes, so gentle yet alert.

“Why’d she say that?” he asks.

“She told me to be quiet because you were resting.”

Will tilts his neck back and closes his eyes again.

“Don’t go back to sleep.”

“I’m not,” he murmurs. “I’m just thinking.”

There’s a moment’s pause; and then she says, “Mama wanted to know if you saw the letter for you today.”

Will swallows, heart skipping a beat as he remembers the way he gingerly held the envelope in his hands, like it might burst into flames with any sudden movement.

“I did,” he answers.

\---

_Dear Will,_

_I’ve struggled for some time trying to articulate what exactly I want to tell you. Your letters have become the highlight of my week; I eagerly await each one. But it’s come with the strangest of symptoms. Instead of missing only my brother, sometimes I catch myself wondering what it must be like to see you again in person. Two years ago feels only like a short time ago, and yet it’s long enough that I’m afraid that I have a difficult time envisioning your face when I’m reading your letters._

_Forgetting what Tom looked like, sounded like, and, overall, felt like has been a large fear of mine since it first processed that I would never see him again. A similar fear has developed about you. Perhaps it’s because you’re the last real connection I have to him. While I am perfectly content writing to you, I’d like to know if you’d ever want to meet somewhere. The purpose of such a meeting is simply to convene like friends in the flesh as a welcome change from the slow ways of the mail._

_We can arrange a meeting through our correspondence if this interests you; if not, I hope we can continue our letters until there isn’t a reason to write anymore. And, if I may say, I must also hope that our reasons continue indefinitely._

_Yours,_

_Joe_

\---

Will stays awake at night and thinks of Joe.


	3. troisième

**_troisième._ **

There’s something that reminds him of that April day in 1917 when he cut through tents of dying men in his desperation to find Joe, even if the train station is alive and unaware of anything outside of it. It takes some gentle shoving through the crowd before he finally notices him, tucked away among all the people coming and going, almost as if he’s just there and not waiting for Will at all. And yet Joe’s eyes are on him, scrutinizing and soft all at the same time, and his heart hammers and his head swims as he approaches him.

“Lieutenant Blake,” Will says.

“Will,” Joe says.

They shake hands.

“Sorry,” Will breathes. “I wasn’t sure if our informality translated past paper.”

“I have no rank now.” He offers Will a smile, and Will’s eyes and throat burn with a sob he’s been holding back for years, because the way his face lights up reminds him so much of Tom. “I hope this trip hasn’t inconvenienced you any--”

“No, no,” Will interrupts. “My wife encouraged me to come, actually.”

“Why’s that?”

He wavers. “It’s good to get away from the house sometimes.”

Joe pauses before answering, “I’d imagine being a father and husband doesn’t allow that to happen often.”

“No, not really.”

Joe nods, and then his eyes sweep down Will’s frame. Goosebumps raise on Will’s arms.

“I have a cab outside,” Joe says. “I was thinking I’d share a lunch with you.” He pauses again. “Are you hungry?”

“I wouldn’t mind a meal.”

“That settles it, then.” He nods in the direction the rest of the crowd is heading. "This way."

Will follows him wordlessly to an empty automobile waiting outside. "Is this yours?" he asks.

"I only got it recently," Joe answers. "Tom always wanted one."

Will gets inside.

\---

Joe settles on a restaurant that's more inconspicuous than elaborate, which Will gladly welcomes. After they order, Joe tells him, “I might have brought you home for lunch, but my mother is always gone at this time to visit the neighbors. Even if that weren't the case, though, I figured that it would be impolite to introduce you to my mother so soon.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Maybe it feels more awkward for me, then,” Joe says, and then his eyes scan down him a second time. Will’s entire body tingles, and it’s uncomfortable because he can’t identity what’s making him feel that way, but there’s also something enthralling about it. Then Joe continues with, “I’m very glad you agreed to meet with me in person. You’re just as I remembered you, but also…”

“Real?” Will offers. “That’s how I feel about you.”

“What do you mean by ‘real’?”

“At times, you feel more like a figment of my imagination,” Will starts. “You haven’t changed a bit since I saw you.” He takes Joe’s eyes, his nose, his jaw, the curl of his hair, and his throat tightens. “But now you’re here in civilian life.”

“Does the war feel unreal to you, too?”

“Unreal in the same way any memory feels.”

Joe nods. “It’s odd how you spend four years in a trench with however many men and then never see them again.”

“If you tried hard enough you could, I suppose.”

“That’s why I wrote to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Will says quietly as a small grin overtakes his lips. “But it’s not like you spent time in the trenches with me. I was in an entirely different division.”

“Yet you’re here now.”

“So I am.”

It’s Joe’s turn to smile. “We don’t have to talk about the war only. I don’t want the entirety of this lunch to be dreary.”

“Boring you with the details of my quiet life is preferable, then?”

“I could just as easily bore you with the details of mine.”

“Actually, I do have a question about that.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“You live with your mother.”

“That’s correct.”

“So you still help with the orchard, then?”

Joe’s complexion softens. “Tom tell you about that, did he?”

“When we were sent to find you, we found some cherry trees.”

“Oh.” His eyes cloud. “That’s my excuse to stay home, at least. I take care of Mum and tend to her trees.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“It is when she wants me to leave home with a wife. But when you get accustomed to something after doing it your whole life…”

“Is that tedious work?”

“Sometimes it is. When Tom was around, he found ways to keep it interesting. But you know that.” He snorts. “I’m sure Mum was more than grateful whenever I returned from university. His stories are fun when you have months away from him, but when you’re alone with him for the same span of time, your opinion of them changes a bit.” He pauses, and then adds, “She misses them, now.”

Will glances down at the table. He rubs his fingers along the tablecloth and asks, “You never mention your father.”

“He died a long time ago. Tom was barely walking at that point.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. It was so long ago. Then again, there’s not much else you can say in response, is there?”

He thinks of Tom, and then replies, “If there is, I haven’t found it yet.”

A brief silence overtakes them, only broken when Joe says, “I’ve been wondering why I assumed you weren’t married with children, but I think it’s because of how youthful you looked in that moment I first saw you.”

“I’d imagine I’d look anything but youthful after all I did to get to you that day.”

“You still look a bit young.”

Will meets his gaze. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. There’s something…” Joe trails off, and then smiles nervously. “Some people are born with youthful faces. Tom was like that.”

“He looked much younger than me, age aside.”

“It’s better to look younger than older. Fewer people question your achievements if they think you have more time left.”

“That’s a bit cynical.”

“Maybe it is. It’s the truth, though.”

“You would know.”

He grins wider and says, “I’m still deciding if it’s ultimately a blessing or a curse to not be blessed with the same youthfulness.”

“You can at least say that you’re handsome.”

His smile turns into something more genuine. “You can say the same about yourself.”

“I’m not handsome in the traditional manner, I don’t think.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I’m not exactly complaining. Not when I was fortunate enough to at least come home with everything still intact, minus a few scars.”

Now Joe’s face wavers. “I hurt my leg pretty badly,” he tells him.

“Did you?”

“It left me with a slight limp.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“I have a long scar from my knee all the way to…” He gestures towards his ankle. “It happened sometime after I met you.”

“Shrapnel?” Will asks.

Joe nods.

“Is it a bad scar?”

“I don’t see why it matters,” Joe answers. “Not when my legs are always covered, anyway.”

“That’s true.”

“But it’s hardly fun to look at when I get undressed, even if I am mostly used to it at this point.” He scratches his chin. “You can take your medals on and off, but the scars…”

“I have a few,” Will interrupts suddenly. “My wife’s pointed out some I didn’t even realize I had.”

Joe studies him. “Is this conversation making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” he interrupts. “I’ve never talked about this before, that’s all. Not outside of our letters.”

“Not even with your wife?”

“No.”

He gives a slow nod, then says, “Was the war hard for her?”

“It was for all of us.”

“How about since you’ve returned home?”

“I don’t think I’m following.”

“There hasn’t been any problems for the two of you, has there been?”

“No,” he answers quickly, and then he stops. “Nothing that’s her fault, anyway.”

Joe’s about to say something else when the waiter returns and sets their meals in front of them and says, “Enjoy your meal.”

“Thank you,” Joe responds. He doesn’t bring up Will’s wife again.

\---

It’s been a while since Will’s been drunk, and as much as he hates the prospect of doing so before it’s dark, he can’t refuse with Joe buying drinks for both of them. He’s not completely smashed, but he’s intoxicated enough that the world feels much slower, much more relaxed. Maybe Joe’s drunk too, maybe not, but he can’t bring himself to care either way.

“Will?”

He lifts his head and tilts his body so he’s pointed towards Joe. “Hm?”

There’s a ghost of a grin on Joe’s lips. “What time does your train leave?”

“4:30. Uh, no.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “No. 5:30.”

“Might be best to stop drinking, then,” he says. “Just so your wife doesn’t worry about you.”

“Why do you think she’d be worried?”

“If you don’t get out of the house often, I’d assume you don’t go to pubs very often, either.”

“No,” Will answers, and then he swallows. “You’re right. I don’t. Life’s busy with two daughters.”

Joe nods.

“’Course, other men go out. Some of the men I work with do. But my second daughter was a bit more difficult than my first when she was born, and I didn’t like to be away from my family.”

“How do you feel about being here, then?”

“My daughters are older now. My wife’s in better health. She told me to come here, anyway.”

“Does that mean you feel better about leaving, though?”

“Better,” Will repeats, and then his eyes fall to Joe’s mouth. He doesn’t mean to let them fall there, but they drift on their own. And surely Joe notices, especially by the way he pauses for much too long for it to feel like a natural caesura in their conversation, but it’s too difficult to get his thoughts to stand still so he can parse through them all and say anything more.

Joe’s grin widens.

“You,” Will starts, and then he shuts his eyes again and runs his hand through his hair. “You, uh… you mentioned you don’t have a wife.”

“Mm-hm.”

“That’s surprising.”

“How so?”

“You’re educated and healthy and…” He opens his eyes and nods towards him. “...I’d imagine any woman would feel lucky to look at you and talk to you.”

“I suppose I haven’t worried myself too much about it.”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“I find company.”

“Oh,” is all Will says in response, but the way that Joe looks at him makes his hair stand up on the back of his neck. “What kind of company?”

Joe leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Would it offend you if I continued an earlier conversation?”

“Can’t think of anything you’ve said earlier that’d offend me.”

“It’s about your wife.”

Will takes another swig and says, “Continue.”

“I asked if you and your wife had any problems.”

“Yeah.”

“You said nothing that’s her fault. What did that mean?”

Will grimaces as he sets his glass down on the table. “It’s all been a fucking disaster since the war, hasn’t it? You go off, watch countless men die, and then you come back and you’re supposed to act like nothing ever happened.”

“That’s why I wrote to you in the first place.”

“I know.”

“How does this relate to your wife?”

“’Cuz she’s tired of me waking her up once a week screaming.” He finishes off his drink. “I go to sleep and I see your brother. He’s always there in my dreams. And I never save him. I never fucking save him.” Will slumps down in his chair as tears well in his eyes. “When he died, he died in my arms. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t.”

“I held him. His blood was all over my hands and I just held him and watched him die.” Will cover his face with his hands. “Fuck.”

“Will,” Joe says softly.

Will peeks through his fingers to see a handkerchief extended to him.

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” he continues.

“Not your fault.” He accepts the handkerchief timidly, keeping his head low so nobody can see the tears rolling down his cheeks. “My wife never asks me about my nightmares. I’ve never told her what happened in France.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know how.”

Joe licks his lips, and then says, “You were close to Tom.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know everything about him. But I felt responsible for him.”

“Protective?”

“Yeah.”

“Will,” he starts, but then he sighs and runs his finger around the rim of his glass. There’s a pregnant pause before he continues, “If you’d like, we can leave. I can help you get cleaned up before you head back home.”

“Sorry, did I embarrass myself too much?”

“Not at all. I just thought that you might prefer somewhere more private. Mum’s still out of the house, if you’d like to go there.”

“Why not,” he murmurs, and he shoves his glass away from him and towards the center of the table. “You might need to help me up, though.”

\---

Joe lives in a quaint house in the country, obviously weathered from decades of existing on its own, but it maintains a cozy ambiance that’s only elevated by the presence of the orchard out back and makes Will’s heart swell.

“This is nice,” Will says once he’s in the house.

“It’s home,” Joe replies.

They make their way to the kitchen. There’s a small, square table inside, just big enough for four people to sit.

“Take a seat,” Joe tells him. “I’ll warm some water up for you.”

Will sits near the basin and waits quietly as Joe pumps water outside. Once he has returned and started the overop, Will breathes, “I’m sorry for getting emotional.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t want to concern you,” he continues.

“You’re not the only person who has dreams.”

“I know. But…”

“But nothing.” Joe turns to look at him. “If there’s any place for you to get emotional about this, it’s here. I understand.”

He doesn’t need to be told that, but it’s difficult to express all he’s feeling, especially when he hardly knows what he’s feeling himself. “I was told not to dwell on it right after he died,” Will says quietly. “I’ve been trying not to.”

“And then you have those dreams and it all comes back.”

Will’s vision blurs with tears. “Shit,” he breathes, and he wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“I would be lying if I said I still don’t cry every now and then. It gets easier, but--”

“It’s never the same.”

Joe doesn’t answer; instead, he dips a rag into the basin and wrings it out. “This helps me,” he says as he pulls a chair next to Will. “I find splashing water on my face is useful in multiple contexts.”

Will’s about to respond, but he’s caught off guard when Joe’s fingers brush against his chin and tilt his face up. He’s close, startlingly close, eyes dark and warm with a tenderness he never thought was possible in a man. His lips part as if he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Hold still,” Joe breathes, and he gently swipes the tears away from Will’s cheeks and dabs the rag around his eyes.

There’s those goosebumps again, that electric feeling that overwhelms his senses. He can hardly process the way Joe pats his skin with one hand he strokes his jaw with the thumb of the other. It reminds him of his wife, of the way she touched him when they were young and oblivious to anything else because they were so in love, and god, it takes his breath away.

“Joe,” Will chokes out, but Joe only shushes him. “Joe, are you sure--”

“This helps,” he repeats, and he leans in closer. “Trust me.”

He’s so close that Will can see all the little imperfections in his skin and smell the sweet scent of his aftershave. If he wasn’t drunk already, he would definitely be now.

“Joe.”

“Yes, Will?”

“Joe, I need--” He puts his hand around Joe’s wrist and pushes it away from his face. “I think I just need to--”

And without any warning, Will grabs Joe and Joe grabs Will, and they embrace tightly, Will burying his face in Joe’s neck while Joe’s lips end up near his ear. His head spins and his chest tightens, and he feels like he’s on the verge of fainting with exhaustion, with need.

“Will,” Joe sighs, and his heart beats so quickly it feels as if it’ll pound right out of his chest. “Can I be honest?”

He nods his head and exhales into his neck.

“I wish I could kiss you.”

And just like that, the world ends.


	4. quatrième

**_quatrième._ **

There was a boy that Will once knew, back before the war, before he had even met his wife, who had curly hair and freckles splashed across his cheekbones. He was loud and goofy and always got in trouble with his teachers and bosses. Will never realized how much he wanted to kiss him until he gets back home.

\---

“How was your trip?” his wife asks.

“Pleasant,” he answers.

“Are you going to see him again?”

He doesn’t know what to say.

\---

_Dear Will,_

_I hope I didn’t scare you when we met. It was a tense moment for both of us, or at least I believed so at that second. Most likely, it was something I shouldn’t have said. I thank you for allowing me to bring you back to the station instead of finding your own way home._

_Having said that, I hope you don’t regret coming or any of the letters we’ve sent. I had a wonderful time with you, even if the general mood of the afternoon contradicts any semblance of positivity. But your presence was desperately needed. Knowing you understand all that I’ve been through made a world of difference in those few hours._

_Please be honest and direct with me, now. I don’t know what you’re feeling or thinking. I would like to continue being your friend in any matter. That requires understanding what you want._

_Sincerely,_

_Joe_

\---

He’s in the field in France again, the tall grasses expanding in every direction and fading into the horizon, just as unaffected by the violence around it as always. Will begins walking, not quite sure where he’s going or why.

“Blake?” he calls.

There’s nobody else around, no sign of artillery or the remnants of soldiers long passed.

“Blake?” he repeats.

The grass crunches underneath his boots as he pushes forward.

“Blake, where are you?”

And suddenly, there’s a person in the distance.

Will stops, takes in the figure, the shape, the size, working out if that’s Blake or an enemy, if he should approach him or not. Before he can make a decision, the other begins walking towards him.

He flexes his fingers around the strap of his gun and begins the same path. “Is that you?” he asks, soft enough that it’s likely he went unheard, but he continues approaching anyways.

“Scho?”

Will’s heart races. “Blake,” he breathes, and he starts running. He’s light on his feet as he hurries towards him, nearly dizzy with joy. “I’ve been looking for you for so long,” he calls out, but then he blinks and finds himself alone in the field again.

He stops suddenly, clenching onto his gun’s strap even harder, and spins around. All he sees is grass.

Will lets his gun slide off his shoulder as he sinks to the ground and hangs his head. He’s too exhausted to get up and keep moving, especially when it seems so pointless. Then someone says, “Will,” and wraps their arms around him. The scent of Joe’s aftershave fills his senses.

“Will.”

He wakes up and finds his wife gently shaking him.

“You slept for too long,” she tells him.

\---

He slips away after dinner one night as his wife reads to their daughters and heads straight from his bedroom. Once inside, he locks the door and tears through his desk drawers, pulling out every letter from Joe and fanning them out across his desk. He feels mad, completely fucking mad, because it’s been weeks since he last heard from him, but his thoughts still haven’t moved on.

This is wrong, he tells himself over and over. He’s a husband and a father but the thought of Joe leaves him breathless. And for Joe to be so direct with him, to put himself out there so --

Will groans softly as he tilts his head back and tugs his hand even more quickly between his legs. All that’s running through his mind is how Joe looks, smells, sounds, feels. It’s just enough to put him over the edge.

\---

He enters the kitchen quietly and stands by the cupboards for a second before saying, “Thank you.”

His wife looks up from the stove and pushes her hair out of her eyes. “What for?”

“For everything. Taking care of the house and the girls and me.”

“You’ve never said this before.”

“You deserve to hear it.”

She sends him a quizzical look. “I have a feeling that there’s a different reason you’re thanking me.”

“I’ve been thinking about it recently. It must have been difficult while I was off in France.”

Her expression immediately softens. “That’s not your fault. I had to keep going on somehow.”

“But things haven’t been quite the same since I’ve returned, have they?”

She purses her lips, and then says, “It would be unreasonable to expect anything to be the same. There’s no sudden need to thank me.”

“Maybe it would be better if I told you that I still love you.”

The ache in her eyes matches the dull pain pulsing with his heartbeat.

“I never doubted that,” she says.

“I don’t remember the last time I told you. I’m sorry.”

She licks her lips and turns back to the stove. “I could be saying the same to you,” she starts. “But I’ve spent so much time wondering what I can do to help you that I suppose I wasn’t sure what…” She exhales. “You’ve been so distant.”

“It’s not intentional.”

“I don’t need any explanations or excuses. I only want to know what will help.” She removes a pot off of a burner and continues, “I’ve noticed that when you get letters from that man -- Blake, I think that’s his name -- you seem a bit more like yourself.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Your business is your business, of course, so I don’t know if this is something you’ll have to figure out on your own. But whatever it is that you have to do to help yourself…” She looks up at him again. “Make sure to come back to me, alright?”

Will breathes out through his nose, crosses the floor, and kisses her forehead.

\---

_Dear Joe,_

_I’d like to meet with you again._


	5. cinquième

**_cinquième._ **

It’s a blustery spring day when Will gets off the train. He walks through the train station with more resolve than he had the previous time, going straight to the place Joe had been before and grinning to himself when he finds him there again. Before he can call his name to catch his attention, Joe raises his head and meets his gaze.

“You’re here a bit earlier than I expected,” he tells Will.

“Fast train, I suppose.”

“Perhaps.” Joe removes a cigarette case from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Want one?”

“No thanks.”

He exchanges the case for a lighter. “Do you want to get lunch?”

“We could.”

Joe stares at him with a cocked eyebrow as he lights his cigarette and shoves it back into his pocket. “‘Could’ doesn’t mean yes or no.”

“Maybe a light lunch.”

He takes a drag on his cigarette and then smirks. “You have something on your mind, Will?”

“Your mother is out, isn’t she?”

“She’s always out until the evening this time of the week. I thought I told you that last time.”

“I wanted to go back to your house.”

His grin dissolves into something sterner. “What for?”

“I’d like to talk in private.”

“What about?”

“Anything. Is that alright?”

Joe blows smoke from his mouth. “Lunch first, and then the house.”

\---

“I was afraid you might not write me back,” Joe says after swallowing down a bit of bread.

“I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“I had other things to do, don’t worry. I might have sent you another letter if I hadn’t been busy preparing for the harvest.”

“Are your cherries almost ready?”

“Just about.”

“Is it just your mum and you harvesting, then?”

“It’s always been that way. She didn’t hire anyone to help her even when Tom and I were off in France.” He scratches his cheek. “Bless her. It’s hard enough trying to get everything picked before rain comes in with multiple people, but she was by herself then.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“It’s nice having an extra set of hands, but it feels odd since Tom is gone. The thought of someone else…” He hesitates. “It feels like replacing him.”

“I don’t think you can ever replace his stories.”

“No, I don’t believe so,” he grins. “The harvest will be much more boring whether extra help is hired or not.”

“I know I definitely missed him in the trenches.”

Joe lets out a short laugh, and then his smile fades. “It feels terrible to laugh. I know Tom wouldn’t like me to continue being sad about him, but laughing feels disrespectful sometimes.”

Will stays quiet for a moment, because he understands what he means too well. “If he wanted us to laugh at his stories while he was still here, I’m sure he’d want us to keep laughing at them.”

He gives a small nod and then says, “I don’t know if you knew him long enough to start repeating stories, but that was something he also enjoyed doing.”

“He never did with me. But we also had the war to worry about.”

“Yes, you did.” He runs his finger down his glass and clears his throat. “It must seem like I spend a lot of time thinking about him, but since talking to you, I find I think about him less and less without feeling guilty for it.”

“Suppose that’s why people will tell you to get things off your chest.”

“It’s the strangest thing,” Joe continues. “It feels like a transferral of thoughts.”

“What does that mean?”

“I find myself wondering about you more, most days.”

Will’s heart leaps to his throat. “Funny.”

“Is it?”

“I feel the same way.”

“You think about yourself?”

“Don’t be cheeky,” Will says, and Joe smiles again.

“I really am glad to see you again. As I was waiting for you to write back, I found myself wishing that I had spent more time learning about you instead of learning about your relationship with my brother.”

“We’ve already discussed how uneventful my daily life is.”

“You have a number of years before the war, don’t you?”

“Yes, but--”

“But nothing. People with much duller lives love to talk your ear off about them.”

“Even then, something tells me that you’ve probably gotten into more interesting situations than I have.”

“How so?”

He hesitates, and then says, “I’m not sure if this is a conversation to have in a restaurant.”

Joe looks at him with a puzzled expression “For being too intimate?”

It’s only now that Will feels out of his depth. Maybe he had made too many assumptions about Joe in those weeks spent thinking about him. He almost feels remorseful for imagining such terrible things about Joe. And then he actually does feel that way because of how much he enjoyed thinking those things that could easily be untrue, but Joe had been so direct with him that last time they met that Will has no reason to doubt how Joe feels about him now.

“A bit,” he finally settles on.

“You’re going to have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”

“It’s more about who you’re intimate with.”

Joe cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t immediately jump to any defensive retort. Instead, he says, “That’s a peculiar thought,” with all the coolness in the world, like this hardly means a thing to him despite all the consequences. And it makes Will slightly sick when he realizes all that can go wrong, all the ramifications that go along with acting on this urge that’s plagued him day and night, all that can change with his wife, his daughters, his entire life.

“As long as we’re confiding in each other,” Will starts, but he doesn’t finish. Joe shifts in his chair.

“I trust you,” he tells Will.

“I figured as much.”

He gives a small nod and says, “Maybe some privacy would be for the best, after all.”

The answer makes Will dizzier than he’s felt before, just because he’s so close to something he can hardly process, but god, does he want it.

“In the meantime,” Joe continues, “there’s a pastry here that you have to try…”

\---

There’s a sense of unease as Joe leads Will to a dark rose sofa in the center of the living room. It faces a number of large windows that allow the sun to completely wash the room with light and imparts a sensation of vulnerability that only heightens the anxiety fluttering in Will’s stomach. He keeps an eye on Joe as they both sit down, far enough away from each other that there’s only enough space for someone to sit in between them. They stare at each other until Joe finally starts with, “So you’ve been thinking about me.”

“It’s a bit hard not to after the last time we saw each other.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’m going to need you to be a bit more specific,” he tells him. “Although the fact that you came back instead of calling the police on me or God knows what else tells me that I was probably correct in choosing to trust you.”

“Why’d you trust me?”

“Some people seem less prone than others to be alarmed by things that are different to what they know.” Joe’s eyes burn into him as he suddenly leans in. “Of course, sometimes that’s because those people have no room to judge for whatever personal reason.”

The back of Will’s neck prickles. “And that means--”

“Have you ever kissed a man before, Will?”

His throat tightens to a point where he’s unable to speak.

“I know that’s upfront, but honesty is the best policy, so they say.”

“Why?” he chokes out. “I mean, why would you think that I--”

“You were hinting at it this afternoon, weren’t you?”

“No. I mean -- I don’t know, there’s been a lot on my mind.”

“Like me, for instance.”

“Yes, but I’ve never kissed a man.”

He stops. “Really?”

“I’ve never thought about it before.”

Joe backs away slightly, expression now dejected. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I got ahead of myself in assuming that--”

“What I mean is I never thought about it before you brought it up,” Will interrupts. “Now I realize that I’ve always -- oh, god, this is difficult to say.”

“Nobody said you have to.”

“But you asked, and now it’s all just…” He looks away from Joe because it feels like too much to bear. Everything about this is ridiculous, to a point where Will’s face burns bright with embarrassment, because he had hardly confessed as much to himself, and now he’s blubbering stupidly to the man who inspired it all.

“I can draw an implication,” Joe says, but Will only shakes his head.

“It’s an obsession that I can’t get rid of! It just returns to me day after day and night after night and I’m left wondering what would have happened if you had just kissed me in the kitchen--”

“Will.”

“--and I know it’s wrong, but my wife, she told me to do anything I needed to do in order to feel better, and I’m so worried that I can never feel myself again if I never kiss you--”

Will’s cut off when Joe grabs his jaw with both his and crushes their lips together. He lets out a small groan, hands hovering in the air and Joe kisses him like he’s done this a dozen times before. It’s unlike anything Will’s ever experienced before, absolutely fucking miraculous, and when Joe pulls back, Will’s quick to grab his wrists and yank him back towards him. They topple back onto the couch, Will slinging his arms around Joe’s neck, Joe planting his palms on either side of Will, kissing, kissing, sighing, kissing.

When they finally stop for air, Joe props himself up and exhales, “Does that answer your question?”

Will blinks up at him, grabs him by his shoulder, and responds, “Do it again.”

Joe gladly obliges, slinging his leg around so that Will’s legs are enclosed inside of his, lips hot and wet and desperate to taste him, and _fuck_ , this must have been what Eve experienced at that tree in Eden, something so forbidden and damnable but absolutely euphoric to indulge in.

“Shit,” Will sighs as Joe rubs against him. He’s half-erect already, and he should be embarrassed, but he can’t be, not when he’s so close to this nightmare he’s craved for weeks, not when it’s in his grasp. Will cants his hips upwards and groans when he feels that Joe’s in the same state. When he rolls them up again, Joe grunts and tilts his head to suck on the skin of Will’s jaw. So he does it another time, and another, and another, until Joe’s panting too hard to continue his path of kisses down his neck.

“Will, stop it,” Joe mutters.

He tightens his arms around his shoulders. “Why?”

“This isn’t what you want.”

“How do you know what I want?”

“You only mentioned kissing.”

“It doesn’t have to be just that.”

The way Joe’s eyes bore into him fill him with the same sensation he had when he was fighting for air in that river next to Écoust. He’s terrified, convinced this is the last thing he’ll ever do, but it’s only natural for him to meet his end this way, completely enveloped by something more powerful than he’ll ever comprehend.

“Are you sure?” Joe asks.

He swallows and answers, “Yes.”

There’s a pause, the most suffocating pause in Will’s life, until Joe finally says, “Let’s go to my room.”

It’s only as Will follows Joe that he wonders if perhaps this is a dream, and any moment now he’d wake up to the sound of his wife’s quiet voice. And if that’s the case, then there’s nothing wrong with his mind running away from him while he sleeps, nothing stopping him from letting Joe shove him against the wall and kiss him so lasciviously. Will clutches onto Joe so tightly that his fingers ache, but he can’t let go of him, not yet. He clings onto him until Joe gently pushes him back onto his bed and begins undressing him. Each new inch of exposed skin gets another searing kiss until Will’s about to explode with an animalistic desire he’s never known before and completely nude. Then it’s Joe’s turn to take off his clothes.

There shouldn’t be anything so astounding about seeing a naked man after all the time in the trenches, and yet it’s absolutely miraculous to see Joe standing before him without a shed of clothing. He drinks him all in, trying his hardest to memorize everything about this moment, until Joe dips his body over Will’s, takes his face in his hands, and kisses him.

They kiss deeply, drunkenly, hands roaming across their skin, so flawed with freckles and moles. Will rubs his leg against the scar running down Joe’s, and he relishes in the pleased hum that Joe lets out. And then their lengths touch, and it’s almost too much, but he doesn’t stop. This is what he wants, this is what he needs, Joe’s hand bringing the two of them together, their bodies slightly out of sync, but still satisfactory enough to make him whimper Joe’s name.

God, it’s good, almost too good to hear Joe gasp, to feel the sweat beading on his skin, to taste the gin still on his lips from lunch, everything, _everything_ \--

“Jesus,” Will gasps, and his mind bursts.

“Jesus,” Joe echoes a few seconds later. He collapses beside him.

Then all at once, the house is silent. Somewhere, a clock’s ticking. Birds chirp outside.

“Well,” Joe sighs, but he doesn’t say anything else. 

Will waits for his wife to wake him up.

\---

By the time he reaches the train station, Will is numb from all the indifference of the crowds. It’s so jarring to think about the ecstasy he had just felt only an hour or so ago within all the monotony, but he can’t bring himself to make any reference of it to Joe or joke about what the etiquette of such a scenario is. Instead, they both make their way quietly to the platform before turning to face each other again.

“Thanks for coming,” Joe tells him.

“Thanks for having me.”

They shake hands. It’s different than the last time.

“Will you write again?” Joe asks.

“I don’t know.”

His face flickers. “Why not?”

“Maybe ruminating on your brother hasn’t been ideal for the two of us. We seem to do better when we’re thinking about something else.”

“So we write about other things,” Joe suggests.

“So you’ve suggested before.”

“I mean it.”

Will glances over his shoulder. “I better catch my train.”

“Not until you at least promise to come back,” Joe teases, but his eyes say something different.

He swallows, and then says, “Write to me,” before nodding goodbye.


End file.
